


Five

by StAnni



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, M/M, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 06:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18654427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: “What?” Quentin smiles, nipping at Eliot’s skin – salty.  Eliot gives him a look, but it is soft in comparison to his stern voice “I’m not in the mood to reward fuckupery” to which Quentin chuckles.  “So don’t reward it.”





	Five

Eliot is quiet, pent up – pushing tiles around in frustration as he appears to be trying to remember the set that Quentin forgot to leave up so that he could set it down.

“It’s one set, El. One. Get over it.”

Of course Eliot doesn’t answer him, or even acknowledge him. Quentin didn’t expect him to. Eliot doesn’t respond to the “teenage-slash-emo-bullshit-vernacular”. And Quentin is not lackadaisical by any means, but it’s five in the afternoon and it is just starting to cool down so he’s not amped to get into a fight. “Sorry. I fucked up. Okay.”

Eliot still doesn’t turn around and his back, broad and tanned by the Filorian sun, is tense as he moves the tiles into corners on the table. 

“El.” Quentin tries again, pushing himself up with a sigh, “you’re being a bit…” and this time Eliot does look around, shoots him a warning look as he approaches.

“Don’t finish that sentence, Coldwater.”

At least he’s not really mad. Not like when Quentin accidentally dropped an armful of tiles into the river when he went to clean them. “Why in the fuck would you even want to wash the fucking tiles, Quentin!?” or the time when Eliot walked in on Quentin fashioning a headband from a piece of Eliot’s old pants “Maybe I wanted to keep those for, you know, posterity!” 

Forgetting to leave up one set is hardly the end of the world, doesn’t come close to ripped Prada. 

And it’s five in the afternoon, Arielle is out on chores, the breeze is picking up – bringing in a waft of lavender from the fields and Eliot’s shoulders are strong, dipping beautifully into the small of his back – which is where Quentin puts his fingers, tracing a small circle there.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Eliot deadpans as he continues to sort the tiles. But Quentin, cheek to Eliot’s upper arm can see the slow hardening at the front of Eliot’s (new) pants. “What?” Quentin smiles, nipping at Eliot’s skin – salty. Eliot gives him a look, but it is soft in comparison to his stern voice “I’m not in the mood to reward fuckupery” to which Quentin chuckles. “So don’t reward it.” And he knows which buttons to push and when to push them with Eliot. They have been at this for a good four years already. 

“Yeah?” Eliot says with feign disinterest, looking back at the tiles, but there is a lift to his lips, a small smile there and when Quentin reaches down his cock is hard, heavy. “Yeah.” Quentin says, eyes on Eliot’s.

“What are you up for?” Eliot asks, voice even but strained, moving Quentin’s hand away from his erection with a firm grip around Quentin’s wrist. If Quentin wasn’t hard already that would do it.  
“Let’s see.” Quentin challenges innocently.

They don’t do it often, or not often enough for Quentin’s liking. Eliot, the master of push and pull, knows how to keep a guy thirsty.

“Follow me.” Eliot says and the words sound light, but the darkness there is delicious.

When they get inside the cottage Eliot stands at the side of the bed. “Close the door” he says and Quentin does as he is told, strumming with anticipation. “Take your shirt off, then your pants.” It doesn’t even take two seconds and Eliot is staring at him, taking him in – and Eliot’s gaze skimming his body, his cock, thick and rigid, feels like the lavender breeze outside. “Hand me the oil” and Quentin, turning, finds the oil on the counter and hands it over. His heart is starting to beat faster and he can see a slight shake in his fingers. He knows that Eliot sees it too, from the quick smile he allows.

“Come on, El.” He says, his voice almost raspy with excitement. He’s never been patient. And his eagerness puts Eliot further on edge, so it works. They work.

“That’s another three, Q.” Eliot says, matter-of-factly and Quentin, because he really cannot wait any longer, grips his cock to stop the involuntary twitch. “And another three.” Eliot adds, eyes on Quentin’s hand. Quentin lets go.

Eliot only loosens the front of his pants, his impressive girth straining there, and as he sits on the edge of the bed, legs only slightly spread, he reaches inside the makeshift nightstand, taking out the folded belt.

Quentin has thanked every deity ever that he never attempted to cut that belt.

“I’d like to use the belt, but if you don’t,...”

He nods, firmly because it’s not always that Eliot even considers the belt. Usually, when they do do it, Eliot makes him push down his pants, bends him over a table, uses his hand – but they have time today, so it will be thorough.

Eliot waits for him and he bends himself over Eliot’s spread knees, one leg pushed up a bit – just for himself – opening up just a tad, to feel the whip of the belt there. He can feel Eliot’s cock pressing up against his flank, the tip wet and warm. 

“Ready for this?” Eliot asks, calm as you please and before he can even finish his response the first blow comes down with a deafening crack against the top of his ass. 

Eliot doesn’t fuck around. He has a firm grip on Quentin’s right cheek and before the next blow lands he feels the cool air on his hole, exposed. The whip of it, the touch of the belt there, makes him cry out loudly in response – his dick jerking, hard, against Eliot’s leg. “You’re gonna take it for me, baby?” Eliot asks, his voice gravelly – turned-on and Quentin nods, his heart clutching around the endearment, which is another thing that Eliot doesn’t often use. The third blow is not as brutal as the fourth and Eliot doesn’t stop until Quentin is gripping the quilt on the bed, voice hoarse from crying out, sweating, pushing through the pain and finally coming in a thick stream against Eliot’s thigh. 

It takes seven blows to draw the last shake of an orgasm out of him and he can hear Eliot breathing heavily, raggedly above him. Eliot’s cock, glistening with pre-cum is heady and as he slides down in between Eliot’s further parting legs he dips two fingers into the oil, slicking up the shaft before he takes Eliot’s length, as far as he can, into his mouth. Eliot grips his hair and groans, easing him up. “No wait, wait, I’m too close, turn around, I want to fuck you.”

It’s on their knees, with Quentin bracing against the cabinet for purchase as Eliot opens him up fast before he pushes inside with a rough, single thrust and grips the raised skin of his ass – red and burning. Like this Eliot feels insanely big, pressing so deep and so far up inside of him that he has no breath left. And it is fierce and punishing, exactly what he wants, exactly what he deserves – Eliot’s hips thudding against him, his balls warm and slapping heavily against the underside of Quentin’s ass. “Fuck” Quentin breathes, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” with every shove and because Eliot likes him vocal, likes Quentin to moan and curse he bites Quentin’s shoulder with a breathless laugh “Yeah, come on, baby, show me how you take it.”

Eliot doesn’t last more than ten minutes – gripping Quentin’s shoulders to his chest as he arches them both back, the warmth spreading in shuddering bursts as Eliot fucks Quentin through his orgasm.

The room is a mess afterwards – cum on the floor and the quilt in a tangle. Quentin leans back, boneless, against Eliot who shoves him away with a chuckle “Hey, fuck, you’re heavy.” 

In the kitchen Arielle is making something sweet and she pops her head round – crinkling her nose at the wet spot on the floor. “If you boys are done having fun, I have some peach pie ready.”


End file.
